The Harafish (8 page)

The public chorused their agreement. Even the judges smiled inside themselves all the time he was speaking. They sentenced him to one year in prison.

57
.

Fulla returned to the basement room without a penny. She found people genuinely ready to care for her. They brought her food, water, firewood. The air was fragrant with kind words.

The disclosure of Ashur's secret did nothing to detract from the love and respect people felt for him. On the contrary, it may have helped to create a legendary figure of him, braver and more heroic than before.

All the same, Fulla decided not to live off charity, and went to work in the Darasa market, far from prying eyes.

One day Darwish stood blocking her path. “You have my sympathy, Mother of Shams al-Din,” he said in a gruff voice.

“You must be enjoying this, Darwish!” she retorted sharply.

“I had nothing to do with it,” he said vehemently, “Mahmoud Qatayif will testify to that.”

“It must be convenient for you, though.”

“God forgive you! What do I gain from him being in prison?”

“Don't pretend you're not pleased, Darwish.”

“God forgive you…But let's stop quarreling,” he said, suddenly ingratiating, “and let me give you some advice.”

“Advice?”

“It's not right for you to work alone in the Darasa market.”

“Do you have a better idea?” she scoffed.

“You could work where I could keep an eye on you.”

“In the bar!”

“At least you'd be quite safe there.”

“To hell with you!” And she walked off without saying goodbye.

The same evening she heard that he had formed a gang to get himself appointed chief of the local clan.

58
.

When she visited Ashur and saw him in prison clothes her eyes filled with tears. Shams al-Din bounded happily forward so that his father could kiss him through the bars. Ashur asked how she was. “Everything's fine. I'm working in the Darasa market,” she assured him.

He seemed angry and resentful. “The injustice is harder to take than prison,” he said. “I've done nothing to deserve this.”

He repeated this last sentence several times over, then, the note of protest rising in his voice, he added, “Not one of the men in here is as evil as Darwish.”

“And do you know what?” she broke in scornfully. “He asked me to come back and work for him!”

“Bastard! What about the sheikh?”

“He treats me with respect.”

“He's a bastard too. And he really
is
a thief.”

“You can't imagine how many people send their greetings.”

“Bless them! How I miss hearing the anthems!”

“You'll soon be back listening to them. The animal trough and the fountain and the mosque have become reminders of you. Linked with your name forever.”

“They should remind people of God.”

Fulla smiled wanly. Then she said, “The bad news is that Darwish has become our new chief.”

Ashur frowned. “That won't do him any good.”

Fulla was amazed at how healthy and rejuvenated he appeared, against all the odds.

59
.

Ashur al-Nagi was never far from people's thoughts throughout his stay in prison. The harafish waited impatiently for the day he would return. Others took elaborate precautions. Darwish surrounded himself with hangers-on, keeping them loyal with cash from the protection rackets he ran. Mahmoud Qatayif encouraged him. “It's numbers that count, no matter how strong the individual.”

The rich supported him, alarmed at the affection shown for the absent Ashur. The general consensus was that he should be restrained or done away with.

Season followed season. The dervishes in the monastery continued to chant their mysterious anthems. At last the appointed day arrived.

Sheikh Mahmoud looked about him. “God Almighty!” he breathed angrily.

Flags fluttered on the rooftops and over shop doorways. Lamps were strung across the alley, bright sand strewn on the ground, and congratulations rippled through the air.

“All this because a thief is coming out of prison,” he grumbled.

He saw Darwish approaching. “Everything ready to welcome the king?” he hailed him.

“Haven't you heard the news?” said Dar wish in a low, troubled voice. He proceeded to tell him how his gang had abandoned him and gone off to the main square to welcome Ashur. Not one of them had stood by him.

The sheikh blanched. “Bastards!” he muttered. Then he whispered in Darwish's ear. “We'll have to think again.”

As he moved away, Darwish was saying, “He's the new chief. He didn't even have to fight for it.”

From the main square came the sounds of drumming and piping. At once men, women, and children surged out into the alley. A procession came into view, leading a swaying carriage where Ashur sat enthroned, surrounded by the erstwhile members of Darwish's gang.

The onlookers cheered, applauded, and danced for joy. So great was the crush that the cart took about an hour to cover the distance between the entrance to the alley and the little mosque.

The drumming and dancing went on until dawn the next day.

Epilogue

Ashur al-Nagi became clan chief without a fight. As the harafish expected, he set about his duties in an entirely different manner from his predecessors. He returned to his trade as a carter and lived in the basement room of his earlier days. He obliged all his followers to work for a living, thus eliminating the thugs and bullies. Only the rich had to pay protection money, which was used to benefit the poor and disabled. He subdued the chiefs of neighboring alleys and gave our alley a new dignity. As well as the respect of the outside world, it enjoyed justice, honor, and security at home.

Ashur would sit in the monastery square late into the night, transported by the sacred melodies. Spreading his hands before him he would pray, “O God, preserve and increase my strength so that I can use it to protect your faithful servants.”

1
.

U
nder the merciful shadow of justice pain is lost in the recesses of oblivion. Hearts bloom with confidence, drinking in the nectar of the mulberry trees, delighting in the sound of the anthems, without understanding their meaning. But will the brightness and the clear skies last forever?

2
.

For the first time Fulla awoke and did not find Ashur asleep at her side. Her eyelids, heavy with sleep, flickered uneasily and her chest contracted with fear. She prayed God to protect her from a lover's forebodings. The sweet, safe world around her gave way to bleak emptiness. Where was the prodigious young man of sixty, still strong, energetic, black-haired? Had he fallen asleep during his nightly vigil in front of the monastery?

She called Shams al-Din. He woke up, grumbling. His handsome face looked inquiringly at her.

“Your father's not back yet,” she said.

He took time to absorb her words, then pushed the cover back
and stood up, slender, tallish. “What's happened to him?” he muttered anxiously.

“Perhaps he fell asleep,” she answered, fighting her apprehensions.

As he dressed, his grace and beauty became more apparent, crowned with the innocence of early youth.

“How can anyone want to stay up till daybreak in autumn?” he said as he went out of the door.

3
.

Outside a damp breeze blew. The last strands of mist were vanishing and life began to stir. Before long he would find his father asleep with nothing over him. He would scold him gently, which the intimacy between them allowed him to do.

He went through the archway to the monastery square, peering in front of him as he prepared himself for the saga of their meeting. However, he found the place deserted. He looked about him in troubled silence: the square, the monastery, the ancient wall, but no trace of a human being. This was the spot where his giant of a father usually sat. Where had he gone?

He threw a furious glance at the monastery; as usual it gave nothing away. Where had he gone?

4
.

Perhaps he would find out the answer from Ghassan or Dahshan, Ashur's right-hand men. But they were surprised to see him and said Ashur had gone to the square a little before midnight and stayed an hour or two, no more.

“Could he have arranged to meet somebody?” ventured Shams al-Din, but they claimed to know nothing more of his movements.

After some hesitation he went to see Sheikh Mahmoud, who received the news with surprise and became lost in thought.

“So the lion's vanished,” he said finally. “Don't worry. He knows what he's doing. He'll be back before morning.”

5
.

Fulla's strength of will abandoned her. She cried out, “Receive me in your arms, Lord! Spare me from my fears!”

Shams al-Din sat with his father's men in the café, talking and waiting. From time to time they glanced toward the archway or the corner of the alley, where it joined the main square. Autumn clouds filled the sky, silvery from the light behind them. Midday came and there was still no sign of Ashur. The men split up and went off in different directions in search of clues. By now the whole alley had heard the news and was consumed by it; nobody bothered to work.

6
.

The well-off and the merchants were astounded by the news. Magic filled the air they breathed like a miracle. For when people are caught in the grip of an unyielding force and see no chance of escape, they are desperate to believe in miracles. Had they not feared their hopes would soon be dashed, they would have dropped their guard and gloated openly. Only a miracle could deliver them from the tyrant's authority, from his eternal youth, his iron will! So they prayed for his absence to last, the legend to be buried, the present order reversed once and for all.

“Where's he gone?” Darwish inquired of Sheikh Mahmoud.

“Do you think I've got second sight?” said the sheikh scathingly.

Darwish shook his white head. “There's one possibility we shouldn't overlook,” he murmured, “and that's his weakness for women.”

The sheikh smiled in a superior way but made no comment and Darwish went on, “I thought he'd be around for a hundred years!”

“He creates that which ye do not know,” intoned the sheikh under his breath.

7
.

Evening fell. The night drifted in, unexpectedly cold, and there was no sign of Ashur. The café, the bar, the hashish dens, were cloaked in gloom. His family and his followers watched and waited, unable to sleep.

“There are so many of them and yet they're helpless,” sighed Fulla.

“Have we forgotten something? Is there anything else we can try?” asked Shams al-Din dejectedly.

She let her tears flow unhindered. “Right from the start I knew it was wrong to have false hopes!”

“I don't like people who fear the worst always,” he shouted angrily. “Nobody's made off with him. He's not some toy. And he's too shrewd to fall into a trap. I'm only worried because the trails have all gone cold.”

8
.

The following morning Ashur's men gathered in the café together with Shams al-Din and Fulla; they were joined by Sheikh Mahmoud and Husayn Quffa, imam of the little mosque. All were perplexed and full of foreboding, but none dared to express his fears.

“In twenty years the chief's never altered his routine,” said Dahshan.

“He must have a secret!” said Husayn Quffa.

“He doesn't have secrets from us,” said Ghassan.

“And certainly not from me!” declared Fulla.

“Could he have joined the dervishes?” suggested Husayn Quffa.

“Impossible!” objected several voices.

“Something tells me he'll reappear as suddenly as he vanished,” soothed Sheikh Mahmoud.

“It's hopeless,” wailed Fulla.

At this Dahshan pronounced dramatically, “Perhaps he's been betrayed.”

Hearts raced and eyes flashed angrily. “Even lions are sometimes betrayed,” persisted Dahshan.

“Calm down,” cried Mahmoud Qatayif. “Nobody bears a grudge against the finest man in the alley.”

“There are always people with grudges.”

“Guard against temptation and be patient. God is our witness.”

9
.

Darwish was handing a calabash to a drunken customer. The man suddenly gripped his arm and whispered in his ear, “I heard Ashur's men talking. They were saying that you're the only person who could have betrayed him.”

Darwish hurried in alarm to Mahmoud Qatayif's shop and told him what he had heard. He was shaking with terror. Qatayif lost patience with him. “Stop acting like a woman!” he snapped.

“How can they suspect me when I'm in the bar night and day?”

The sheikh thought hard. “Run away,” he said eventually. “You've got no choice.”

Darwish suddenly vanished. Nobody knew if he had fled, or if someone had killed him. Nobody asked about him, and Sheikh Mahmoud appeared not to notice he had gone. Soon the bar was taken over by a local drug trafficker, Ilaywa Abu Rasain, and it was as if Darwish had never existed.

10
.

The days passed without a glimmer of hope, slowly, heavily, shrouded in melancholy. They all despaired of seeing Ashur al-Nagi again, sadly remembering the giant figure going about the neighborhood, restraining the powerful, protecting the rights of the humble breadwinners, and creating an atmosphere of faith and piety.

Fulla wore mourning; Shams al-Din wept uncontrollably, and Ashur's men were sunk in sorrow and reflection. Some people thought that Darwish had betrayed Ashur, then killed him near the monastery, dragged his body to the cemetery, and buried him in an unmarked grave. There were those who insisted that Ashur would return one day and laugh at all their desperate notions; others imagined that because his disappearance aroused such strong feelings it was a miraculous event, and proved that he was a saint.

The harsh magic of custom began to have its effect on the sad episode, making it acceptable, ordinary, reducing its significance, thrusting it into the eternal stream of events where it vanished from sight.

Ashur al-Nagi had disappeared.

But time and fate will never stand still.

11
.

A new chief had to be chosen before the regime crumbled completely or ambitious gangs from other alleys moved in. The choice was narrowed down to Ghassan and Dahshan as the strongest candidates and the closest to al-Nagi. Shams al-Din was not even considered: he was too young and delicate-looking. Each man backed his favorite, and they decided to follow the procedure normally adopted in such cases: the rival candidates were to fight it out in the Mameluke Desert and the winner would be made chief.

News of these developments reached Fulla and when she saw Shams al-Din dressing to go and watch the fight with the other gang members tears of self-pity sprang to her eyes. Irritated by his mother's reaction, he said, “The alley can't survive without a chief.”

“Who can follow him?” she asked fiercely.

“There's nothing we can do.”

“The place'll be run by thugs and tyrants like it was before.”

“It won't be that easy for them to turn their backs on al-Nagi's legacy,” said the boy with passion.

She sighed and seemed to be addressing herself: “Before, even though I was poor, I was a lady. Now I'm going to be just a sad
widow, abandoned by everybody, praying without hope, dreaming of my lost paradise, hiding away at weddings, afraid of the dark, wary of men, avoiding other women, bored and forgotten.”

“I'm not dead yet!” he said reproachfully.

“God give you a long life. But your father's left you while you're still a boy. A carter without money or status, or his giant size which would have guaranteed you the leadership…”

“I have to go now,” he muttered dispiritedly. He said goodbye, tucked his father's rough stick under his arm, and left.

12
.

Shams al-Din had grown up in a Spartan household and knew only hard work and a simple way of life. He remembered nothing of the opulence of the Bannan house. His father used to take delight in his handsome face, almost a copy of his mother's, and say, smiling, “This boy's not cut out to be a chief.”

He sent him to Quran school, poured life's sweetest melodies into his heart, and did not neglect the physical side of his education: he taught him horse riding, single-stick fencing, boxing, and wrestling, although he had no thoughts of preparing him to be chief. As Shams al-Din became more aware of his surroundings, he realized the extent of his father's power and influence and was brought abruptly face-to-face with the sharp contrast between his greatness and the miserable life he led. One year as a feast day approached he declared boldly, “Father, I want to wear a cloak and headcloth in the parade.”

“Have you ever seen me in anything but a plain gallabiyya?” asked his father sternly.

Like her son, Fulla was annoyed with the way they lived and said to Ashur in his hearing, “Nobody would blame you if you took enough from the taxes to ensure yourself a decent living.”

“No,” replied Ashur. “You should raise chickens if you want to make us a bit more comfortable.” Then, turning to Shams al-Din, he added, “Surface gloss has no value in this life compared to a clear conscience, the love of your fellow man, and the pleasure of listening to the anthems!”

He trained him to be a carter and they shared the work until Ashur was approaching his sixties, when he handed most of it over to Shams al-Din. Shams al-Din admired and respected his father but at the same time longed for a life of ease; sometimes he supported his beautiful mother in her aspirations. Spurred on by these suppressed desires, he innocently accepted a feast-day bonus offered to him by the owner of the caravanserai and rushed out to buy a cloak, headcloth, and leather shoes with turned-up toes. On the morning of the feast he sauntered proudly through the alley in his new attire. When Ashur saw him, he grabbed him by his collar and marched him into the basement, then struck him so hard that his head spun.